


London Bridge

by RCD1st



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Bridge - Freeform, F/M, Happy Ending, Jumper Squad, Sherlock's here to save you, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 04:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RCD1st/pseuds/RCD1st
Summary: When Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes sees a random notebook on the side of the London Bridge, he knows something' wrong.Forty minutes under the London Bridge changed Sherlock's life forever.





	1. London Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that the London Bridge is actually quite short and has nothing underneath but pretend, for the purpose of the story, that it is large, high above the water, steal, and has metal pillars and joists underneath it.

Sherlock Holmes was traveling home one night after a case that took him way out of the city. He gazed out of the window, admiring the lights as they passed. There was almost no one out that fall night, as it was just after 2:00, and the skies were cloudy and the moon was hidden.

As they were driving over the London Bridge, something out of the ordinary caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

“Stop,” he shouted at the cabby. The cabby looked at him, alarmed.

“What?” he asked stupidly. “STOP,” the detective ordered again. This time, the man listened and came to a grinding halt. Before the car had come even to a full stop, Sherlock had pushed open the door and jumped out.

“Call the London Jumper Squad,” he said hurriedly, before slamming the door shut. Behind him, the cabbie nodded once, eyes wide in fear and adrenaline, and stepped on the gas, trying to get off the bridge as fast as he could, as there was no reception on the bridge.

Sherlock, meanwhile, ran to the edge of the bridge where he had seen it. The lights from the bridge were his only source of illumination, so he had to squint hard in between lamp posts.

Yes! There is was! It was a brown leather notebook, about four inches by six inches. A design was etched on the leather cover, and pieces of paper were sticking out of the pages. An elastic band held it shut.

He tore off the band and opened it. It was a journal, just as he suspected. But what really mattered would be the last entry. Flipping to the back page, he saw the final entry. It was written in clear black ink and the words froze the detective’s heart.

Shoving it into his pocket, he leaned over the rail.

“Stop,” he shouted. “Don’t do it!”

Before he had any time to rethink his plan, he swung himself over the railing, sure to keep a strong hold. Under the main bridge was a network of support beams. He dropped onto the ledge underneath and shouted again, “Don’t do it!”

This time, he was heard. A young woman about a dozen feet away from him, leaning against a pillar and gazing out over the river. When she heard his voice, she immediately stepped back, her blue eyes widening in surprise and fear.

As carefully as he could, Sherlock made his way toward her, stepping over ledges, and ducking under beams.

“Who are you,” the woman asked. He could tell she was crying and had been for a while. Her voice was shaky, and her shoulders trembled. He could see the defensiveness in her stance and the tenseness of her body.

He would have to be very careful.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a detective,” he said. He took slow, careful steps towards her so that he didn’t alarm her into doing something stupid. One of his arms was outstretched, ready to grab her if she jumped.

“Huh,” she laughed, though there was no humor in her voice. “Never thought I’d need a detective to solve my case. I figured the forensics would be enough.”

Sherlock took another step forward, watching the girl as she leaned against the pillar beside her. He could see her golden blond hair pulled up into a ponytail, with loose strands waving in the breeze. Her eyes were glassy and far away as she stared up at the stars.

He was now only about six feet away, and he was ready to act if she showed even the slightest sign of jumping. She turned to look at him, straightening. “Please, stay away from me,” she said. Sherlock approached even slower, his arm still outstretched.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he started. The woman carefully maneuvered around the pillar and continued along the ledge.

“What’s your name,” he asked. She had stopped a little way away, leaning against another pillar. “Why would I tell you,” she snapped.

Sherlock took a few steps forward. “Well, since we’re just standing here and you’re obviously not busy, I thought we could just have a pleasant conversation.”

She scowled at his sarcasm. “You’re not funny,” she said. Sherlock chuckled, walking slowly toward her. He rounded the pillar she was first leaning on and stopped. They were about ten feet apart, and Sherlock leaned back on the pillar casually, hands in his pockets.

He shrugged at her comment, “I like to think I am.”

She took her gaze off him and looked out over the water. “I know why you’re here,” she accused.

“Oh really? Why am I here,” Sherlock asked. The young woman scowled.

“You’re going to try and stop me.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in fake surprise. “Stop you? Stop you from what? You were just stargazing, right?”

The girl gave him the deadliest glare he had ever received in his life, one that rivaled even his own! “How did you find me,” she asked.

Sherlock pulled the journal out of his pocket. “Well I found this, and immediately knew what it meant.”

Her eyes widened. “Give that back, that’s for my family!” He turned it over in his hands. “Why is it for your family,” he asked as if he didn’t know.

“You know why,” she shouted. He could hear her starting to choke up.

But Sherlock didn’t give up. He needed her to admit it. It might help her change her mind. If she admitted what she was doing, it might make her realize the severity of her actions. “No. I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“It’s for them to read after I…. jump,” she exclaimed, tears running down her face. She leaned against the pillar and slid to a sitting position, her face in her hands.

Sherlock took that opportunity and quickly, but carefully, walked to her side. He could now see her clearer and saw just how horribly she was doing. She was very thin and he doubted she had eaten that day, maybe not even the day before. Not because she didn’t have the money or means to buy food, but she had lost the motivation to care for her body. He could see the deep cut marks on her arms. Many were old, but most were new. Her fingernails were bitten to the point where they bled, and her eyes were red with constant crying. But Sherlock could still see her beauty, through all the ruin.

Slowly, he lowered himself beside her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“There are other ways,” he said softly. She shoved his hand away and let out a sob.

“Oh, don’t pretend like you care! You know nothing about me!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. That sounded like a challenge to him.  
“I know more about you than you think,” he said.

She scoffed. “How? Have you been stalking me?”

“No, I only met you five minutes ago, I never knew you existed before then.”

“Then how could you possibly know anything about me?”

“I know that your parents were divorced when you were younger and that you are currently living with your father, though he is a businessman, likely travels the world giving sales pitches. You live with him because you have no concrete job, but are trying to lift your career as an author off the ground. Your mother is a neurosurgeon and has lots of money, but she gained custody of your sister and resents you because you chose to stay with your father. Likely the ‘family’ you were referring to when you were talking about the notebook was the housekeeper, who practically raised you in your father’s absence.

“You were always a troubled child, with severe ADD, anxiety, and depression, so it was hard for you to concentrate in school. It is clear to me, though, that you were clearly smarter than any of the other kids in your classes, you were just not interested in learning their way. You taught yourself Latin, German, and even Elvish from your favorite book ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ But even though you were gifted, that did not help with your confidence and view of yourself. You were bullied severely, thus you started to self-harm.

“Things quickly spiraled downhill from there. You did go to college for literature and composition and were happy for those years, but when you got home again, your depression caught up with you. With the death of your mother, you couldn’t cope. Recently, your house burnt down in an accident, and your father perished, along with your housekeeper. Immediately after, the novel that you had been working on for years was rejected, and the editor advised you to find a new profession, as you had no potential in the one you had chosen. That was the final straw.”  
Sherlock was a little surprised: that was the most detailed deduction of a person that he had ever made! But even as he voiced them, Sherlock felt a heaviness in his heart. This girl truly had suffered in her life, and when all of her dreams were dashed, she could find only one way out of it: suicide.

“You don’t know anything about the pain I’m going through,” she muttered. More tears dripped down her face, and her eyes full of despair and loneliness.

“Oh I don’t? Being able to tell all that from the five minutes I’ve known you, imagine the insults I received all during school.”

“You were bullied too?”

He nodded. He couldn’t believe he was saying this. “Children just can’t bear to handle a person that’s different from them. In their little minds, being different is bad. They pick on others to feed their own ego. You were extremely gifted in your imagination, being able to create stories on a whim, and excelling in everything you were interested in. However, the classroom was confining, and your talents weren’t appreciated.” He paused and looked directly at her. “Don’t think for a moment you aren’t good enough. I know potential when I see it, and I see it in you. The ridicule is the consequence of being different, but I’ll tell you what, and I speak from experience: You’ll never be happy being someone you’re not. You’ll never accomplish what you were born to do if you shove your talents aside just to please others.”

Sherlock finished his little pep talk, feeling quite proud of himself.

“How did you know all of that about me,” she asked.

“I told you. That’s what makes me different. I observe what others don’t, whether it is good or bad. More often than not, the people I deduce are severely offended and try to punch me, but I just can’t help it. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I used my skills to my advantage and became a detective. I use my skills to observe what the other detectives don’t, and that way, I’m able to solve many more cases than them. Of course, the other detectives hate me, but I don’t care because I’m doing what I love and they can’t stop me.”

Truly, he had no idea why he was trying so hard to comfort her, using deep, personal examples from his own life. All he had to do was convince her not to jump long enough for the Jumper Squad to get there.

The woman’s mouth was open slightly as she looked up at him. “It’s true. Everything you said. I don’t have anything to live for now. My writing was rejected and my house is burnt down, along with my only friends-“

“Your father and housemaid,” Sherlock interrupted. More tears filled her eyes as she nodded. “They’d been with me my entire life. They were the only ones who understood and loved me despite my flaws. And they’re gone. And it’s all my fault.” Her voice started to raise as her anguish elevated. “It’s my fault my father’s dead! I forgot to blow out the candles that I had lit in the living room, and I went to a writing conference. While I was gone, the curtains caught fire! Dad was sleeping and woke up too late. His room was on the top floor and the fire was already spreading up the house. I got notice and went there as fast as I could, but I was too late. Just as I pulled up--- the house collapsed, with everyone I ever loved inside!”

She fell into another wave of sobs, her tears dripping off her nose and falling _______ feet into the water below. Now, Sherlock vaguely remembered hearing about the house fire in the news. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling, but he also knew he had to keep her talking to distract her from her suicidal thoughts. He had to get even more personal with her so that she could understand what she was wanting to do. Also, he had to keep her from jumping until the Jumper Squad showed up. By then, he hoped that he will have talked her out of it and she’d go willingly.

Sherlock looked down at the trembling woman beside him. Her face was in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs of anguish and despair. Her breaths made little white clouds in the cold air in front of her, and her hands were tucked away into the sleeves of her sweatshirt. As he watched her, helpless and clueless as to what he should do next, rain began to fall, making loud pattering noises against the steel bridge. The cold drops fell onto her head and shoulders as well, causing her blonde fly-aways to stick to her face, and raindrops to drip down her cheeks, mingling with her tears. She started trembling even harder, shivering in the bitter cold and freezing rain.

Without any thought for himself, Sherlock shrugged off his heavy coat and laid it carefully over her shoulders. She gasped slightly and glanced up at him when she felt the weight on her shoulders, but gave him a weak but grateful smile. Soon, Sherlock’s dress shirt was soaked through and he was quite cold himself, but he didn’t care. He knew this suicidal girl needed his coat more than he did. John would be proud. After a few minutes, however, even the thick wool coat couldn’t protect the girl from the freezing rain, as it was soaked through. The only comfort it provided then was protection against the pounding rain.

A few minutes stretched by, and Sherlock watched the girl’s face carefully for any signs that she was about to jump as he listened anxiously for the police. Where in the world were they!? Eventually, she leaned back against the steel pillar behind her and closed her eyes, tears still leaking out of them. Her breaths were still shuddering from her sobs, but it seemed as if exhaustion had overcome her.

Sherlock leaned back as well and closed his eyes. He hoped that the trust he was placing on her not to jump when he wasn’t looking would compel her to stay on the ledge. For a while, all that was heard was the sounds of the rain and their trembling breaths. It was actually very peaceful under the London Bridge, despite the fact that they were ______ feet above the Themes!

After a few minutes, Sherlock’s eyes opened just a fraction, looking through his eyelashes, at the sound of shuffling. The woman had sat up and had moved so that her legs were dangling over the edge of the beam. Her hands gripped the edge. Sherlock saw her cast a long, sorrowful look at his ‘sleeping form.’ And over the roar of the rain on the steel bridge, he heard her whisper “Thank you.” And she turned back and looked down at the water, shoulders tensing as she prepared for the plunge.

Sherlock reached out and gently grabbed her hand. She turned around, and he saw the guilt on her face that she had been caught. She downcast her eyes and her shoulders slouched, starting to wrack with a new wave of sobs. Sherlock tugged on her hand and pulled her away from the ledge, and she didn’t do anything to resist him. Her cries of despair and confusion rose above the pounding of the rain and caused a hollowness in Sherlock’s heart.

He pulled her against him, cradling her to his side, holding her tight and letting her cry on him. He wanted her to know he was there for her. He wanted her to know she was safe. He wanted her to know he believed in her and thought she was a fascinating, remarkable person! She didn’t reject his embrace and melted into his arms, head tucked into his chest, his chin resting on her head. Her fingers gripped handfuls of his sopping wet shirt and his were stroking her hair soothingly. Their arms wrapped around each other in a kind, loving, friendly embrace. And he let her cry and cry and cry, never saying a word. The woman cried her heart out and felt, for the first time in many years, safe. She felt safe in the arms of this stranger. She wanted to believe what he said; that she was valuable and brilliant. But could she forgive herself for her past? Maybe…just maybe… this man would help her achieve it?

Her sobs finally died down, but the two didn’t detach from their embrace. They sat there in perfect peace, watching the rain on the Thames and listening to the traffic on the road above them.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, Sherlock heard the first sirens. As they got closer and closer, he could make out the sirens of nearly six other cars, not including a firetruck and an ambulance. Sherlock felt the girl in his arms tense, and when she lifted her gaze to his, he saw the panic that had overcome her. Her eyes were wide and wild, her face had blanched dramatically and he could practically hear her racing heart.

But he remained calm and didn’t say anything, only took her hand once more and brought her back against him. Though she was still tense, she didn’t resist him, and leaned once more against the detective, wrapping her arms around him as she held him as close as humanly possible. She trusted him. She trusted his words. And though she was still scared, he had convinced her to give life another try.

A helicopter was heard in the distance and the sirens of the emergency vehicles came closer. Sherlock held the girl’s head against his chest, stroking her wet hair rubbing circles on her shoulder with his thumb. He could sense the terror and the doubt that radiated off of her as the officials got closer. She was feeling terrified and guilty and was unsure what to do. All she did know was that she felt safe in this stranger's arms, and the closer the Jumper Squad got, the harder she clung to him.

Sherlock continued to hold her close, never for a second removing his arms from her. He understood her need for closure and safety, and he knew she had found it in him. It baffled his mind that someone would think in such a way about him. That he would be their lifeline, that he would be their sanctuary. He felt…………. Honored.

Against the driving rain, he heard her speak, her voice a low, terrified whisper. “I’m scared.” Although she couldn’t see it, Sherlock smiled sadly, feeling a nurturing love that he had never experienced before. “I know,” he said. “It’s part of being strong.”

They sat together under the bridge and waited until ropes were lowered with squad members on them. They landed on the edge of the steel beam they were on and saw, to their surprise, not someone on the verge of jumping, but a man and a woman huddled together. The woman’s eyes were closed, tears leaking and soaking the man’s already wet shirt.

The squad member made eye contact with Sherlock, who gave him an assured nod that told him they were alright. The man looked at him questioningly. The call he had received spoke of only one jumper, not two.

Sherlock stated, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain and the sirens, “I was the one who first saw her and sent the cabby to call you. She’s…” he glanced down at the girl in his arms, who raised her eyes to his. And he saw in them trust and fear and…hope. “She’s okay.” The member nodded and two more came down and wrapped harnesses around them, lifting them back up to the road.

But Sherlock knew his job wasn’t done yet. As soon as he had been detached from the harness, he turned to find the woman. She was sobbing loudly as the cops put her in cuffs. They started leading her to an ambulance, where she would be examined and then taken to a mental health hospital for treatment. Sherlock pushed and shoved his way through the officers trying to get to her.

“Let me through, she’s my friend! Let me speak to her,” he demanded. He finally made it to her just as she was about to be loaded in the ambulance. An officer each held one of her arms, gently but firmly pushing her forward. Sherlock stepped in front of her, and when she saw him, she broke down even more. He could see the confusion and fear in her eyes. The officers didn’t stop him when he gripped her shoulders and pulled her into his embrace once again, regardless of her inability to hug back.

He pulled back and bent down slightly to be at eye level with her. His hands held the sides of her face, directing her eyes toward his. “We’re okay,” he said lowly, nodding his head slightly to reassure her. “This is good. This is progress. You-“ his voice cracked, and he had to avert his eyes for a moment as tears stung in them. “You’re strong,” he said definitively as he recovered himself. Though tears still spilled out of her eyes, she set her face determinedly. She nodded, chin trembling.

It absolutely baffled him out attached he felt to this girl over the course of just a few minutes! He felt connected to her! He wanted her to be happy! Sure he cared about John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, but this was different, somehow! He didn’t know how, exactly, but it was! And he…..he loved it.

She opened her mouth and said four words that Sherlock would never forget: “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” The tips of her lips curled upward slightly into a watery smile. And though her eyes still glistened with tears, Sherlock could see the gratefulness behind them. He smiled as well, blinking rapidly to fight back his own tears. “You’re welcome,” he said.

And she and Sherlock maintained eye contact even when she was led away and put into the ambulance. Right before the doors shut, she gave him a farewell nod. And he did the same.

And as he watched the vehicles drive off, a thought occurred to him that would fill him with regret to the end of his days:

 

He didn’t even know her name.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a year later, and Sherlock had never forgotten about the woman he had talked off a bridge. But he never saw her again; never heard about her. 

Until one day in late August.

“Hey Sherlock, you’ve been invited to the grand opening of this book from this newly discovered author. There’s going to be a book signing and a dedication. The book’s called “____________,” by (Y/N) (L/N). Do you want to go?” 

John had walked into the living room of flat 221B Wednesday morning with the day’s post in his hands. Sherlock was sitting in his chair reading a book on the importance of teeth to forensics when he walked in. 

“Hmmm…..no.” was Sherlock’s uninterested reply. He didn’t recognize the name and wasn’t at all interested in novels. 

“Oh come on! She wrote a letter specifically to you! She says you and her met for about forty-five minutes in total and that she’s been dying to see you ever since,” John said, trying to get Sherlock interested.

“Nope.”

Just look at the letter, John said, slapping the piece of paper over the pages of his book so that it was directly in his line of sight. Sherlock sighed but picked it up, speed reading. 

“Dear Mr. Holmes,  
You probably don’t remember me by name, since I never actually told it to you, but I just wanted you to know that I’ve accomplished everything I thought I would never be able to do. You inspired me and gave me a new view on life.   
I’ve written a mystery novel that focuses intently on human psychology and the human mind. I think you would enjoy it. I’m having a grand release party-thing for it next week on the twenty-ninth. I would really love it if you came.   
Sincerely, (Y/N) (Y/N)

Sherlock tossed the letter back towards John, who fumbled to catch it. “Boring,” he said. “Likely some fangirl who thinks she knows what it takes to write a murder myster—”  
“Oh and this was also in the envelope,” John interrupted, handing the detective a photograph. Sherlock took it and turned it over. 

John didn’t think it would be anything of significance to the man, but Sherlock leaped up from his chair as if he had been bitten by a snake, holding the picture an inch from his face, mouth agape in shock. 

“What? What is it,” John asked. He had looked at the picture and saw nothing more than a pretty woman. “It’s her,” was all Sherlock replied. Then without any further words, he disappeared into his bedroom, taking the photo with him.

“Soooo……. I guess we’re going to the book signing?” John guessed, voice directed towards Sherlock’s bedroom door. 

“YES!!!”

~*~*~*~*

The twenty-ninth came quickly. John was still confused as to why the photograph of the woman changed Sherlock’s view of the book release so drastically, but he didn’t question it further. On the way to the library, where the event was to be held, Sherlock was silent. His mind was racing, recounting the events of the October night so long ago. He had truly never forgotten the girl and still to this day felt some connection to her. There was something about saving her life not as a detective but as a caring person that touched his soul as nothing had ever before. And obviously, she felt the same, as she remembered him too. He couldn’t express the inward joy that he felt, knowing that she had overcome her fears and weaknesses and finally became the woman she strived to be. He was very proud. After receiving the letter, he had immediately replied, guaranteeing his presence. 

To that day, no one knew that Sherlock was the one that talked her down from jumping. After the Jumper Squad left, he was thanked and set free to go home. He never told John or Lestrade or anybody about it. Perhaps he was worried about being teased by them for expressing such emotions or acting so human when he called himself a sociopath. He supposed he was worried that his reputation would be damaged somehow if word got out that Sherlock Holmes got in-depth and personal with a random woman in an extremely fragile and delicate state. 

Sherlock himself never fully understood why he did all that he had to talk her down. He could have easily used the handcuffs that he had in his back pocket and chained her to one of the poles. That would have been the logical thing to do; the Sherlock thing to do. 

But he hadn’t. He had stopped, taking her feelings into account, guarding his tongue, comforting her. Sherlock Holmes had never successfully comforted anyone in his life. He usually just made them hate him and cry harder. But he hadn’t been fake in his comforting. He had been totally genuine. Somehow, by comparing himself to her, by finding the astonishing amount of similarities between them, he managed to convince her there was a reason to live! 

He had made himself vulnerable, put himself into the line of fire, exposing himself to human emotions! Something human in him was triggered by that girl; a kindness and compassion that he had never experienced before. 

But he knew that he couldn’t keep his secret for long, and he was okay with that if it meant (Y/N) wanted him there. And he had to admit, he was a little excited to see John’s reaction.

They sat in the back. (Y/N) was practically glowing from where she was in the front. She read through the summary of the book and a small section from the beginning as a teaser. And although Sherlock did avoid novels for their romanticism and poetic writing, he had to admit that her book sounding quite interesting. It had much to do with human psychology and human weakness. It manipulated the mind of the reader in a way the literary world had never seen. And it was completely accurate too. A few psychologists spoke about it and verified that all of the information and characteristics of the characters, even though they are fictional, are entirely in line with reality. 

But then something happened that surprised Sherlock and John alike. (Y/N) stood and looked out over all the audience, a grin growing on her face. “I’ve thought long and hard about who I should dedicate this book to. I’ve been working on it for quite a while and many people have crossed paths with me in the process. But the person I finally chose has impacted my life in a way that no one else has, even though we’ve only met once for about an hour. So if you have a copy of the book, please turn to the dedication page.”

There was the rustling of papers and a moment of murmurs. Sherlock felt a jab from John’s elbow. The doctor had somehow acquired a copy of the book and was staring, eyes wide, at the page. “Uh, Sherlock….” Sherlock glared at him for elbowing him but looked at the page he indicated anyway.   
And he froze.

Were his eyes deceiving him? Was it a joke? Did it mean what he thought it meant?   
In fancy, curvy text were the words: ‘To Sherlock Holmes, the man who talked me down from a bridge.’

John, however, wasn’t as awed as he was confused. “What does she mean ‘talked down from a bridge?’”

Sherlock could barely speak, still in awe. “Last fall, I noticed a notebook at the side of the London bridge and immediately knew what it meant. I called the Jumper Squad and climbed under the bride and met her. We talked for the better part of an hour, and by then, I somehow convinced her to give life another shot! But… I never got her name. I didn’t even think about it until she had already gone.” Sherlock looked back up at the woman at the front. “But here she is!”

There was a reception afterward and Sherlock and John spent it as wallflowers. He waited until the very last guest had trickled out before approaching (Y/N). Her back was to him as he approached and he felt a fluttering in his stomach.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, making her turn around quickly, recognizing the voice. John, who was standing nearby, didn’t know what to expect from this meeting, as the whole ordeal (the letter, the photo, Sherlock’s reaction) was quite out of his character.

He expected the woman to smile and shake his hand or something, not for her to throw her arms around him with a gasp of delight. And he nearly had to hold onto the wall to prevent himself from falling when Sherlock embraced her back! And when they pulled apart, John nearly had heart palpitations as he saw tears in Sherlock’s eyes!

They didn’t say anything to each other, but John knew that a thousand messages were being sent through their eyes. Sherlock, (Y/N), and John (mostly Sherlock and (Y/N)) talked late into the night. John couldn’t help but smile the entire time as he saw his ‘heartless’ friend grinning and laughing and smiling more than he had ever seen him. With murder-mysteries being a passion they both shared a passionate discussion about the stages of rigor mortis. John was shell-shocked when he saw Sherlock actually listening to what (Y/N) was saying instead of lecturing like he usually did.

And as John looked at the two of them together, he realized what was happening…

The crime-solving duo got back to Baker Street late, nearly twelve o’clock. Mrs. Hudson, Mary Watson, DI Lestrade, and even Mycroft were there. They had heard about the mysterious invitation, the female author, and most importantly, Sherlock’s strange reaction, from John and all were waiting on the edge of their seats to find out who she was and what she meant to him.

There was a tense silence as the two entered the flat. 

“Well,” Mary prompted. “What happened?”

John threw his hands in the air and shouted, 

 

 

“SHERLOCK’S GOT A GIRLFRIEND!!!”

 

 

We shall now leave our detective as he bolts out of the flat to escape his family and friends, who chase him mercilessly with their onslaught of questions and squeals.


End file.
